HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 103

July 21. The day her mother had died. The ultimate taboo of her life. And the words slipped out of her unbidden?

Lilith was rooted in place, stunned by her own actions. All she could do now was brace herself for the inevitable.

In two strides, Snow shrunk the gap between them from yards to inches. Lilith recognized the erraticism of her breaths by the inconsistent amounts of rose she was smelling.

"Forgive me," he whispered, like a gasp—like the dream. "I should've known."

He looked pained by his remorse, and Lilith attempted a smile for him, though wasn't sure if she achieved more than stretching her lips sideways.

"It's okay," she said, but had to pause for air. "It's been eleven years." It was a struggle to breathe. "I should be over it."

When he grazed his fingers over her forehead, however, Lilith seemed to stop breathing altogether. Every nerve in her body tingled as his fingertips traced her hairline, past her temple and down to her ear, tucking a stray lock behind it. His irises were two blue rings gleaming in the fading sun, warm, but not because they were tinted by orange.

"Your mother could have been gone a hundred years, and still, you don't have to be over it." In a manner as tender as his tone, he caressed her face, his palm smooth and unflinching against her sticky cheek. "You never have to be over it, okay?"

Didn't she? Lilith had always been terrified of the yearning and the sorrow associated with thoughts of her mother, desperate for a cure so that she could be liberated from them. But after all this time of searching, she didn't even seem to come close. The prospect that there was nothing to find brought both relief and distress. On one hand, it wasn't her incompetence, her sensitivity that was preventing her from breaking free. On the other, it meant that she would never be able to escape this pain. Lilith didn't know which was worse: to be constantly disappointed, or to never have had hope to begin with.

"And you don't have to hold it in."

It was a quiet statement, yet delivered like it was the truest truth in the world.

"No?" Her voice was barely a squeak.

"No."

Thrown off its hinges, the door crumpled in defeat, and grief gushed from the deepest place in her heart. But when it washed over her, it wasn't like a lapping wave, fluid and harmless—it struck her like a boulder. One of her hands flew up to her mouth to stifle a cry as though a rock had clobbered her in real life. She hunched over like she had been punched in the gut, her other arm already curled protectively around her torso, but nothing kept her abdomen from quaking, or her shoulders from convulsing, or her tears from flowing.

Notwithstanding her sweaty form, he gathered her into his embrace and pressed her against him. At first, it was all Lilith could do to sob. Although, at some point, her arms no longer separated their chests but clung to him as if he was her lifeline and she was drowning.

Her eyes were squeezed shut and buried against the tweed, but her mother flashed before her all the same: tossing balls and toys for her to catch, dressing her up, braiding her hair, standing by the gates of her old school—dropping her off or picking her up? Then she was prone, hooked up to a million wires and machines. Lilith detested the monotone hospital gown, for it dulled and smothered all of her mother's vibrance. Then the bed was vacated, its immaculate sheets taut and sharp at the corners, and Lilith missed her so much, regardless gray or colourful, everything hurt.

Being released from the unforgiving clutches of anguish was always a slow, torturous, exhausting process. His arms enveloping her had not altered any of that in the slightest, but she was still glad to have surfaced here. Because she was feeble, and his frame felt as steady as a pillar. Because she was tired, and his shoulder felt as comfortable as a pillow. Because she was scared, and his embrace felt as safe as her home—as if this was where she always belonged.